


Six or Eight Months

by alSaqr



Category: The Lovecraft Investigations
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alSaqr/pseuds/alSaqr
Summary: Kennedy walks in on Matthew tying plastic bags around her plants.Set between "The Whisperer in Darkness" and "Shadow Over Innsmouth".
Relationships: Matthew Heawood/Kennedy Fisher
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4





	Six or Eight Months

“Matt, what the hell are you doing to my plants?”

Matthew Heawood was quite proud of himself, thank you very much. He would have told Kennedy Fisher as much, if his mouth hadn’t been full of carefully trimmed, identical sticks of bamboo. She stared at him from the doorway of her apartment, keys hanging limply in one hand, as he stood there looking rather like a child who’d been caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. In one gloved palm, he had some broad-leaved plant of hers that he’d never remembered the name of and in the other, he clasped a half-emptied roll of small bin bags from the Tesco’s down the road. He looked at Kennedy, and she looked at him, and finally she kicked her door shut and walked across the open-plan living room to the breakfast counter.

Resting her elbows on the wood, Kennedy raised an eyebrow at him as if to say ‘well, this better be good’. Matthew felt his cheeks turning red. _This probably looks a_ bit _weird,_ he had to admit; especially since she’d been expecting him to be in the office all day, doing the last of their finances _. Not the last,_ he tried to remind himself, _we_ _’ll be back… eventually. Things will go back to normal once we put all of this woo-woo stuff behind us._ But he’d had an idea the night before, while mindlessly scrolling through spam emails in case he’d missed anything important, and for once had decided to be the impulsive one of their iconic duo and so here he was. Being impulsive.

Hopefully making Kennedy smile. She didn’t smile as much as she used to.

With a self-deprecating mouthful of wood, Matthew tried to explain himself. “I fmmed this mlink mom the mmint-“ His tongue tangled over itself as Kennedy reached over, and tapped him on the nose, startling him into silence. She chuckled, and tilted her head onto one side.

“Care to try that again without the sticks in your mouth?”

Feeling himself begin to blush anew, Matthew placed the cut-up bamboo rods on the counter beside the rest of the plants - he’d tried to gather them all together, but was still certain he’d probably missed a couple, knowing Kennedy - and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before trying again.

“I found this link,” he repeated, wondering if bamboo splintered, running his tongue along the roof of his mouth to check. “On the internet, I mean.”

“Something about the investigation?”

_That_ _’s all that you think about these days, isn’t it?_ Matthew shook his head. “How to make your own mini greenhouse bags.” Kennedy’s second eyebrow raised to join the other. Matthew tried not to blush; after all, he’d never really taken an interest in Kennedy’s plants before, and now here he was letting himself into her apartment to tool about with them. “With sticks and garbage bags.”

“I can see that,” laughed Kennedy, eyes sparkling. “But why are you bagging up my plants?”

_Because I_ _’m in love with you_ , shouted Matthew’s brain, insistently trying to get him to say the words at last. _And you care about these goddamn plants not dying while you_ _’re away._

“If the plants are hardy enough,” he shrugged, trying to look casual as he chickened out once again, “it’s supposed to make ‘em last a good six or eight months without needing watered. And, well, we don’t know how long we’re going to be away this time, do we?” Another too-casual smile, as if that little detail didn’t bother him. As if it didn’t eat away at him that he had no idea when he’d see Kennedy again, or when they’d next debrief over coffee in that little place across from the recording studio. As if he didn’t _mind_ the miles and countries of distance that would be between them yet again, with no set end in sight. “So I did some digging.”

“In the pots? I don’t think you’re going to find water if you go deep enough into the soil, Matt.”

“On _gardening forums_ \- and seriously,” trying to change the subject, he smiled and shook his head in mock-disbelief. “How many different plant forums do you lot need? I found twelve different answers and an eight page debate about what kind of bag works best. I didn’t even know which of the thousands of Google results to click on in the first place.”

Kennedy gave him a look; the sort that, Matthew was sure, could set his hair on fire if she tried hard enough. It was the look that got them information when someone was being stubborn, and it usually worked on him, but today he was determined to stand his ground.

“Do I _look_ like someone who hangs around on gardening forums?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Matthew smirked. “You _have_ been a bit of a homebody since you got back.”

“Choose your next words carefully, Matthew Heawood,” interrupted Kennedy, raising a warning finger. Matthew chuckled, his grin broadening; but not because of the joke.

_I love it when you say my full name..._ “Well,” he responded, pushing his luck. “You _do_ have more plants in this room than I think I’ve owned in my entire life.”

“They’re quiet roommates!” snapped Kennedy, mock-indignantly.

“If you want to live inside an episode of Beechgrove Gardens, sure.”

There was a long silence, where Matthew thought perhaps that had been a joke too far. Somehow. He couldn’t immediately think what was wrong with Beechgrove Gardens, off the top of his head, except that it was a little bit… fuddy-duddy. Which was saying a lot for a pair of people making podcasts about maybe supernatural, weird government conspiracies and crazy cults trying to resurrect Mesopotamian wizards and skinning off faces and what not. _When_ , he thought to himself, his expression briefly tensing, _did that become our_ normal? _Since when am I able to think about that without wanting to_ immediately _call the police?_ He wished it hadn’t become normal. That they were still sitting here, trying to make ends meet with the crazy amount of donations they’d had recently, waiting for the next mystery to rear its fascinating head.

Kennedy hadn’t said anything all the way through his introversion, he realised with a start, shaking his head and paying attention to her once again. Just as he was about to try to pack-pedal it or apologise or something, however, he saw the tears in the corners of Kennedy’s eyes and realised that she was barely managing to keep from laughing. She even had one hand capped over her mouth, to stop herself from making a sound.

That set him off, too and for a moment, it felt as though the last couple of years hadn’t happened. They were just two friends teasing each other again, hanging out in Kennedy’s apartment - which was much nicer than his (she’d come into inheritance at some point down the line, and actually _owned_ the place) - between recordings. Any moment now Kennedy would punch him in the shoulder, dig out a couple of mismatched glasses from the kitchen cupboards, call him a git and offer him a drink. Maybe they’d order take-out; from the Chinese down the road, or the really good Indian place, if funds weren’t too tight. They’d talk into the late hours about whatever was on the telly or politics or Kennedy’s newest plant acquisition and even if he never worked up the courage to suggest he stay the night it would be pleasant… calm. He’d go home happy, sometimes get himself off while thinking about what he _should_ have said, and then they would go through it all again without any kind of trauma.

But then he remembered that Kennedy had been planning on heading to the Library to print off their e-tickets today, and that normal might not be on the horizon again for a very long time.

It took them both a moment to get their giggling under control, once they set each other off. Kennedy _did_ , in the end, both punch him in the shoulder and get out the mugs, but after a quick glance at the clock she turned on the kettle and dug out a couple of tea bags that Matthew was certain hadn’t seen the light of day for at least a year. There were… cobwebs, on the box. She was more of a coffee drinker while _he_ was the one that drank tea - but at least she’d kept them around, for him.

He wondered briefly if tea bags went off, and then decided he’d cross that bridge when it came to it. If the cuppa tasted weird, he could always water the plants. Easing himself into his favourite chair in the apartment he waited in silence while Kennedy wandered about - making the odd noise if what she was saying was something that expected an answer, like about their tickets - and counted the swirls in the paint on the ceiling, and held onto a couple of bamboo sticks he hadn’t put down. Eventually Kennedy joined him with two steaming cups of tea - his with milk and sugar, hers black - and he took a long sniff and then swig of the calming drink and watched her with fond eyes. It would be a long trip, this time; him in Iraq, her in America. But they had agreed that they would call each other every day, and Kennedy had roaming set up on her phone and he had old friends who could keep him on the grid if he had to go a little deeper than they expected. If they worked fast, they might even be home long before the plants needed fed. And if they weren’t then, well… maybe he’d find it in himself to tell her how he felt after six or eight months apart. Or get over her.

_Never_ , he swore to himself, _the latter. No matter what she uncovers, no matter what I learn, it_ _’ll always be Kennedy and I against the world._

“Fine,” said Kennedy finally, with a resigned but fond sigh. Matthew smiled up at her and drank his tea, and tried not to think too much about the future. “Explain to me again how and why you’re planning on suffocating my plants…”


End file.
